Sound Of The Dial Tone
by A Beautiful Beast
Summary: Wherein Alec calls Magnus again, and again, and again, and for once Magnus answers. Granted, his caller ID doesn't say 'Alec' when he picks up. Spoliers for COLS. T for language and such.
1. Sound Of The Dial Tone

**This has to be the shortest one-shot I've ever written. **

**I don't know why I wrote in second-person, so don't ask. Maybe I was looking for a challenge. *shrugs***

**Disclaimer: I don't own MI, or any of its characters. If I did, Malec would still be together and this wouldn't have had to be written.**

* * *

One more call, that's it. If he doesn't pick up this time, you'll stop calling. You promise yourself this over and over as the phone rings. You sit, fingers crossed, thinking maybe this is the time he'll finally pick up.

As the ringing goes on longer and longer, your hope does not diminish, no, if anything it strengthens your hope because he hasn't clicked 'ignore'. Okay, maybe he's silenced the ringer, but he hasn't clicked—

You phone abruptly hangs up. You curse once, softly, under you breath because no one can know how much this hurts you, because you are the oldest, the strongest of all your siblings. You have to stay strong.

_Magnus . . ._

His name brings a shine to your eyes, tears springing to action behind the irises, which you close along with the rest of the eye to keep the wretched  
things back.

When you open your blue — _cerulean, he called them_ — eyes again, they instantly harden.

Forgetting your earlier vow not to call again unless he picked up, you dial his number once more, jaw set in a determined frown.

* * *

Jace broke your phone.

_Jace broke your phone._

How dare he! He doesn't know what it's like to be completely and utterly heartbroken, completely and utterly alone in the world. _He doesn't know a damn thing at all,_ you think, grinding your teeth together.

Scrounging up as many quarters as you can find, you head out into the city, looking for a pay phone.

You see many pay phones — a surprise, considering the amount of cellphones in this city — but none that will suit your taste. You don't want a phone that's positioned right beside a busy bus stop. It's too out in the open, too revealing.

Finally,_ finally,_ you finds the mother of all pay phones. Nothing special at first glance, but on a nearly-empty street, without a single bus stop in sight.

You jam a couple quarters into the machine, and dial the only number you can remember off by heart.

It rings twice, just twice, and then: "Hello?"

And it's him, really him. Not some voicemail message or shit like that, but the real, live Magnus.

"Magnus?" You asks anyway, voice coming out as a croak. "It's—"

"I know damn well who it is," the voice on the other side snaps, voice suddenly freezing cold and sharper than broken glass. "What happened, did Jace break your cellphone or did you finally realise that I'm not going to answer calls if I know they're from you?"

You swallow hard. "Yes to the first."

A laugh from the other side. Humourless, but a laugh nonetheless. "I was kidding about that, but alright then."

"Magnus, I'm sorry." You can't keep yourself from saying. "I don't know how to tell you how sorry I am. It's like a knife, and, without getting too poetic here, it feels like it's literally ripping me apart."

There's nothing but static from Magnus' side, so you continue, heart heavy. "Believe me, I've felt pain before, had near-death experiences, but nothing — none of that even comes _close_ to what it feels like to wake up every morning, stretch out, and feel nothing beside me. I miss you, Magnus, and it's _killing_ me."

Still nothing from the other side, and you wonder if he's hung up and you just didn't notice. "Magnus?" You ask timidly.

Then you hear the tell-take clunk of a person hanging up, and you can do nothing but stand rooted to the ground, frozen in shock.

Immediately, you shove your hand in your pocket and pull out a fistful of quarters, ignoring the ones that slip from your grasp and clatter to the pavement below.

You shove them into the machine, dial that number again, and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The phone hangs up, so you put in more quarters and dial once more. The phone rings, so you wait impatiently for him to pick up.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The dial tone blares in your ear.

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**Reviews are my drug. And my review-highs prompt writing. *Hint hint***


	2. Shine Of The Sequined Jacket

**I couldn't decide whether or not to post this, and, after careful consideration, decided that I would.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own, don't profit, don't see why I need this here because this is on a _fanfiction_ site.**

* * *

When you open your eyes, you immediately wish you hadn't: a sharp pain echoes through your skull, slicing through the front of your head.

You also wish you hadn't had that last tequila shot, but it's way too late to change that now.

With a sigh—a soft one, because your head pounds like a million Zachiric demons have screeched into your ears—you roll over and bury your face in the pillow.

Your nose twitches in pleasure, because the pillow smells nice, like sandalwood. You've always liked sandalwood. With a satisfied half-smile, you drift back into sleep.

A noise hovers at the edge of your sleepy hearing, something akin to the creak of bed springs. You contemplate escaping the half-asleep blackness you currently reside in, but it's way too comfortable to leave.

Somewhere among the haze, you feel a hand weave its way through the curls on the top of your head; swirling, curling, twirling. You suppose it might feel nice to someone else, but you've always disliked things touching your dark locks.

Curiosity piqued, you slowly extract yourself from the wonderful dream-haze, and open your eyes in confusion. It doesn't really help you to understand your situation, as all you can see is white wall. You make a small grunt in annoyance, and the hand massaging your scalp abruptly halts its circular motions.

You reach up with a lazy hand to touch the hand that's touching your hair, because it's _your_ hair and you don't usually let anyone touch your hair.

The scent of sandalwood drifts lazily around you, and you can't help but think that this scent you are smelling is some sort of hint—

As realisation dawns on you, your eyes widen to a comical level, and you grab the hand stroking your hair in a vice-like grip. Slowly, ever so slowly, you turn over.

It's him. He's sitting there. He smells of sandalwood and warm, fuzzy things like Chairman Meow and rainbows and just _Magnus_, and it's him.

It's really, truly, honestly him.

The first thing that should cross your mind is the question of why he's here, but instead you're just glad that it's him and not your sister, who would probably give you some of her atrocious cooking. Without hesitation, you simply grab his other wrist and pull him under the covers with you. Taking advantage of his rare display of uncertainty, you tuck your head under his chin, wrap both arms around his blue sequined jacket, and twine your legs with his.

Now he's trapped. If he gets up, he will move and probably wake you up too, should you fall asleep.

Softly, in his voice of satin and silk, he whispers your name. You can't help but feel his tone is mildly condensing, so you ignore it and snuggle deeper into his chest.

Whatever he has to say can wait until the pounding in your head stops. Damn tequila.

Again, he says your name. This time the tone is rawer and a tad more demanding, like your name is a curse and saying brings down the wrath of God.

Hesitantly, you bring your head out from beneath his chin and gaze upward at him.

"This doesn't change_ anything_," he says, keeping his arms stiffly at his sides and just allowing you to cuddle him.

You grab the shimmering jacket in front of you and nuzzle your face into it, not wanting to ever forget the wonderful scent that is Magnus.

"I know," you reply, voice muffled by the jacket and tears that threaten to spill at any moment.

Both of you sit there in the almost-comfortable silence: you, relishing in these stolen moments, the sound of his breathing—which is shorter than usual and slightly ragged—and him, more stiff than you've ever seen him, obviously having to force himself not to move.

With a small smile on your face and sparkling sequins your fists, you fall back into the wonderful bliss that is the dreamscape, which, incidentally, smells like sandalwood today.

When you wake, there's nothing but a cold left side of the bed, slightly crinkled sheets, and a few flakes of rainbow glitter to greet you.

Your first thought is one of disappointment, but the second one reminds you that it was real; he really was here with you, if just for a few minutes. The memory invokes a small smile to curl the edges of your lips.

You're about to drift off into sleep once more when a fleeting thought catches your attention.

_Why was he here in the first place?_

With a soft groan (because while your headache might be a bit better now, you're still hungover) you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and stand, letting the cold floor chill your feet. Automatically, you open a drawer and pull the first shirt you see out of drawer and over your head.

A crack emanates from your back as you stand upright, and as you walk out of your room your joints protest, creating a chorus of prickles and tingles. Outside of your room, you glance around, and, seeing no one, choose a direction at random.

You can tell that it's night because of the way the halls look; that sluggish, creeping darkness that accompanies the night. When you were younger, you remember flinching away from the darkness, afraid of what demons may have been lurking in its interior. Now it serves as a protective cover for when you feel the need to be one with the shadows, as you do now. Your footsteps no louder than a cat's paw steps, you walk silently down the halls to go find yourself some food.

You pad into the kitchen, not really expecting your sister to be standing at the counter, stirring a cup of black liquid, the smell of coffee drifting lazily in the air.

She looks up as you enter, her dark eyes asking silent questions you don't care to answer.

She slides a cup across the countertop as you approach, and passes you the coffee pot without a word. Your pour the blackish liquid into your cup, being careful not to spill any of it, and proceed to drink the entire cup in one shot. With a heavy sigh, you set the cup back on the counter with a clang, making you wince involuntarily.

Isabelle clutches her cup and glares down into it with more venom than a snake. You can hear her repeating something—a mantra—under her breath, though you cannot make out any of the words.

"Iz?" You ask, concern for your sister suddenly overriding the dull ache in your chest.

She glances up at you, and bites her bottom lip. "I can't take seeing the _iratzes_ on your heart anymore." She bursts out, and it takes you a moment to figure out what she means. You would blush, but all your heartbreak has come rushing back with a vengeance that takes the breath out of you.

Instinctively, you reach up to touch the fabric covering your chest, and you know that if you removed your shirt you'd be able to feel the scars of _iratzes_ etched into your skin.

"How—?"

"You're my brother. Also, you train shirtless sometimes. Do you really think I'm that blind?"

You grimace, feeling foolish. Foolish for thinking she wouldn't notice, foolish for thinking the runes could ease your heartbreak. "I'm sorry," you say, because there really isn't anything else to say.

"Alec," she sighs. "This isn't your fault."

"Yes it is!" You protest. "_I_ was the one who decided to go to Camille,_ I_ was the one who considered shortening Manus' life, and _I_ was the one who was stupid enough to believe that she wouldn't tell him about it!" Your tone has risen to a shout, and you slap your palms against the counter, ignoring the sharp paint that ricochets off of your skull as you do so.

Silently, your sister crosses the floor and wraps her arms around you. "You wouldn't have done it."

You don't reply, but gently place your own arms around her and close your eyes with a soft sigh._ "Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,"_ you murmur quietly, to which she glances up at you and delivers a particularly scathing glare.

"This was_ not_ your fault, no matter what you might think," she says, her glare so heated it could rival the sun. You immediately open your mouth to protest, but she continues on, ignoring you.

"No," she says, voice strained. "This is all that glittery bastard's fault." Your sister spits the words with venom so poignant you nearly wince.

She stares at you for a moment longer, the shakes her head slowly and walks away. She brushes past you and heads into the dark hall, allowing the shadows to swallow her up completely.

You continue to stand at the counter, paralysed; frozen in silent contemplation.

_She could be right,_ a voice whispers.

_Or,_ counters another voice, _she could be completely wrong._

You shake your head rapidly, and, forgetting all about your reason for coming into the kitchen in the first place, you head back to your own room.

With every step you feel your mind clouding, senses dulling. When you reach your room and lay down on the bed, you only have one thought in your head. Tomorrow, you will confront a certain Magnus Bane.

Feeling an odd sense of satisfaction, you close your eyes, not allowing yourself to imagine the terrible things that could happen when you arrive at Magnus' doorstep. There will be plenty of time for that later, when you are standing at his door with your hand raised and trying to gather the courage to actually knock.

_Tomorrow will be better,_ you think in the moment before sleep overtakes you. _Tomorrow will be better._

* * *

**This is much longer than the last chapter (1685 words). Yes, I will probably be posting another chapter. No, I don't know when I'll be able to post it.**

**How about a review, hm?**


	3. Sigh Of The Exasperated Warlock

***Sighs* I'm sorry. Really, I am. But you guys know how it is with Writer's Block. **

**Happy Ending sold separately, guys. Read at your own risk. ;P**

**Disclaimer: I'm way too tired to write a funny disclaimer, so I'll just inform you that my name, however close to Cassandra Clare's it might be, is not Cassandra Clare, and therefore I don't own any of the characters I so love to torture.**

* * *

You trudge down the streets, letting the tiny snowflakes flutter majestically down around you. The wind makes you shiver, so you unceremoniously shove your cold hands into your pockets. You really should've brought mittens.

The cold nearly makes you forget about your purpose for being outside: you're going to confront Magnus. You haven't practiced a word of what you're going to say—actually, you haven't the slightest clue what you're going to say.

The walk takes less time than it should, but you suddenly find yourself at the door to the apartment. You automatically raise a freezing hand to press the button, but stop yourself as your index finger touches the cool plastic.

You don't want to talk to him through a speaker, and you doubt he'll let you in.

Which means you have two options: wait for someone else to ring and open the door for you, or break in somehow.

Seeing as you do not have the patience nor the time to wait for the former, you're left with no other option than to break in.

You curse in your mind, but search the door for weak spots anyway. You can't help but think that if you were Jace, you would have come with a lock pick, or even a fucking plan.

But, if you were Jace, you wouldn't be in this situation at all. You would be with your girlfriend Clary, killing demons left right and centre. You wouldn't be in this situation at all if you were Jace, because Jace doesn't have a tendency to make big, stupid mistakes, and mainly, because Jace isn't gay.

_Screw it,_ you think, and slide a hand down the row of buttons, pressing nearly all of them in the process. You make sure to avoid the one beside Magnus' name.

A buzzer rings, signalling that the door is open. You can't help but grin triumphantly as you push the now-unlocked door open and begin to ascend the stairs.

You walk—run, really—up the stairs two at a time.

When you reach his door, you raise a hand and knock twice, quickly.

"_Coming_!" He calls, and you can hear Chairman Meow yowl loudly; he must've been sitting on Magnus' lap.

Magnus attempts to shut the door as soon as he registers your face behind it, but thankfully you've shoved a foot into the space between the door and its frame.

With obviously great reluctance, he pulls the door completely open.

"No." He says, his voice definite.

"What?" You reply, thoroughly confused.

"I'm not taking you back, Alexander."

It stings when he says your name. Not like a bee sting, or even the sting of a needle, but a cold ache that settles itself in your chest and spreads all the way to your extremities, chilling you to the bone.

Your reply is a venomous snarl. "I wasn't going to ask you to take me back, Magnus. In case you forgot, I sort of tried that already!"

The sparkling warlock runs a tongue over his lips—which are coloured blue, and you wonder if it is a cruel coincidence that your favourite colour is blue. It makes it hard to take your similarly coloured eyes off of them as the warlock replies.

"Alright, Alexander. Why are you here, then, if not to ask for forgiveness?" His voice is cool, eyes sober in a completely un-Magnus kind of stare.

You swallow once, allowing yourself to blurt the first word that comes to your mind. "Why?"

For a brief moment, Magnus' expression is unguarded, and all you can see is a film of regret, but a split second later he recovers, and you wonder if you imagined it.

"Why _what_?" He asks, sounding tremendously bored.

"Why everything!" You huff, throwing your arms out to accentuate your point. "Why date me? Why have sex with me? Why come to my bedroom at three in the fucking morning and then say it doesn't matter? Why love me at all, Magnus, if all you're going to do is dump me after my first mistake?"

For the first time ever, Magnus looks at you with a that plainly says he thinks you're an idiot—an idiot he doesn't really like.

"Your first mistake?" He lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Oh, my poor, delusional Alexander."

"I'm not your Alexander," you snap, any patience you once had gone.

Magnus gives you a flippant wave of his hand.

This isn't the Magnus you know. This is what you've dubbed as "business Magnus". The warlock puts on a nonchalant face, and pretends he doesn't give a damn whether the world turns to ash. You've seen it a few times when your dates were interrupted by unwanted visitors; usually a Downworlder with a so-called desperate need for the High Warlock of Brooklyn's services.

You look at him as though you're looking through a particularly strong glamour. As he talks on about you and your mistakes, you peel the glamour from him piece by piece, sparkle by sparkle.

The first part to show any sort of emotion are his cat-like eyes. They flicker every time he says your name, shimmer every time he hits you with a veiled insult. The emotions bubble beneath the surface, and you can tell they're so very close to boiling over.

"Are you even listening to me?" Magnus asks with an exasperated sigh, his tawny cat eyes narrowing.

"You never answered my question," you realise aloud. "Answer my question."

He regards you carefully, as if you are a piece of meat being sized up for butchering. "Which one?"

You try not to strangle him. "Why did you sneak into my bedroom in the middle of the night just to start stroking my hair, only to say that nothing was going to change between us when I woke up?"

Again, he licks his lips with an agonising slowness. "I don't remember doing anything of the sort." He offers you a half-shrug. "Perhaps the tequila made you hallucinate?"

"How do you know that I drank tequila that night?" You ask, knowing that you've got him trapped.

"How do I know anything, Alexander? I believe the mundanes say "through the grapevine"."

You roll your eyes at him with a scoff. "Yeah, and did "the grapevine" inform you that I ate a ham sandwich this morning? That's bull, Bane, and both of us know it." You narrow your eyes at him, looking like a stern parent trying to convince their child to tell the truth.

"Alright," he sighs, throwing his arms out to the side as if to say _"what's the point?"_

"So I followed you to a bar, and checked up on you later. Sue me." Magnus shrugs nonchalantly. "Last time I checked, this was a free country."

You snort in disbelief. "How'd you get inside the Institute, anyway?"

"That's for me to know, and you to find out," he says, and you're sure that if you were anyone else, he'd drop you a glittery wink while saying it. Instead, he simply crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the door frame, stretching out a hand to examine the nails on his fingertips.

"Now leave," he says suddenly, still gazing carefully at his nails, which have small, multi-coloured jewels over their coat of neon pink polish.

You stare back at him, a tad confused. "What?"

"You heard me, Alexander." He says in a bored fashion. "Leave. I don't want to talk to you; I never did in the first place. In fact, consider yourself lucky that I'm talking to you at all right now."

It takes all the self-control you can muster just to prevent yourself from reaching into your pocket for the small dagger you always carry with you. Just to pin him to the wall, perhaps, just to show him you mean business.

You give a small huff of exasperation, but restrain yourself and reluctantly remove your foot from the doorway, stepping backward out into the hallway.

"I just hope that you know I never would've done it," you say to him before he shuts the door.

"You considered it," he replies coldly. "That was enough."

The door slams loudly in your face, but you don't flinch, merely set your jaw and head for the stairwell. Tears building behind your eyes threaten to spill over, but you hurriedly rub them dry.

You won't cry over him; not again.

If he doesn't want you, you can deal with that. You don't need to consult Ben & Jerry. You'll just get on with life, you suppose. Forget about Magnus, focus on helping Jace with his little "Heavenly Fire" problem.

It sounds like a great idea in your head, but then again, nearly everything is easier said than done.

With a heavy sigh, you drag yourself back to the Institute, wondering how on earth you're going to manage now.

_Aku cinta kamu,_ you think sourly. _Yeah, right._

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**Yay! Unhappy endings! :D Oh, and 1543 words, in case you were curious. Also, is anyone else excited for Clockwork Princess? I'm sure it's going to be awesome. **

**Review, pretty please? I'll love you for it. :)**


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